It's been a while since I've posted on this blog, mainly because the past few months I have been devoting my time to writing my book, From 6 to 9 and Beyond: Widening the Lens of Feminine Eroticism, and focusing less on articles. If you click on the link the title, you will also find an "Updates" page where I have blogging about the writing process. So be sure to head over there and check out all the good stuff I've been up to :)

However, I didn't want to neglect this page, so I am posting the first page from my story about "The Queen" archetype. You can find more on the book's website. Enjoy!

The Queen. Photo by Sequoia Emmanuelle.

Rani Jhadav placed the edge of the chilled glass against her warm lips, tipped back her head and slightly parted her mouth. Bright bubbles tickled the back of her throat, while the dry, cherry flavor of the 2005 Cristal Rosé Brut washed over her tongue. She closed her eyes. After the champagne had sufficiently slaked her thirst, she set the flute back down on the cream and gold-colored cocktail napkin. She glanced down at her Richard Mille 007 Rose Gold Watch, given to her exactly one year ago for her 38th birthday.

“Twelve twenty-eight,” she noted to herself, the hands pointing towards two small diamonds representing the clock face’s twelve and the six.

She remembered the e-mail verbatim:

Alley

Sit at the bar

12:30 SHARP

Wear a skirt

Xo, Ms. V

Rani recrossed her legs, the smooth cushion of the suede barstool brushing against her bare, mocha thighs. She hooked the left heel of her Louboutin black-and-crystal pump on the bottom rung of her seat.

“Twelve twenty-nine.”

Admiring the artist’s penmanship, she softly fingered the paper “Reserved” sign that sat three inches behind her glass. The R snaked under the word “reserved” in thick calligraphy. A similar, yet scripturally unique, sign sat nine inches to her left, saving the empty space next to her.

“Good thing Ms. V had the foresight to reserve us a spot,” thought Rani, as she glanced around the packed restaurant. Ever since the Gramercy Park bistro opened a little over a year and a half ago, it had been the hot spot for New York City’s wealthy and elite. It was a particular favorite of Rani’s since she could count on it to “wow” her potential investors and business contacts. And it was only two blocks from her Flatiron office.

Plus, she simply adored the care and attention put into every detail of the place—the décor, the cuisine, the wines, the gold-plated napkin rings and handwritten menus—all of it represented simple, yet elegant tastes, while simultaneously fostering an air of familiarity. Even now as she sat in plain sight, sliding her long fingers up and down the stem of her flute, Rani couldn’t help but step inside the intimacy of her experience. Nothing existed but supple flesh on firm glass.

No sooner had she drifted off than she was startled back to the present by the appearance of a stranger in the seat beside her. She quickly looked at her watch.

“Twelve-thirty? That was a minute?!” she thought, surprised at how quickly she had lost her sense of temporal perception.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said, “this seat’s reserved.”

“I know,” he silkily replied, an impish smile curling around his mouth.